


The Only Exception

by fadeoutslow



Category: MotoGP RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 20:37:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1318408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadeoutslow/pseuds/fadeoutslow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jorge is in denial, Ricky is not. Jorge gets over it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Exception

Ricky can't even remember the first time they met. The paddock is a small place, everyone knowing everyone else, and they've both been around a while. Ricky's always thought Jorge looked _interesting_ , if way too intense and possibly slightly terrifying, but they've never really spoken beyond casual greetings.

But then one day, there's a pre-season riders' briefing, and Ricky's late, and the only empty seat is next to Jorge. He sits down quietly, and Jorge nods at him. Someone is already droning on about medical evacuation procedures, and usually Ricky finds it difficult not to doze off during these things, but not this time.

Because while he might be looking straight ahead, he's strangely _aware_ of Jorge next to him, face concentrated as he leans back in his chair, arms folded, legs spread wide, wide enough that Ricky has to keep his thigh slightly tensed in order to stop their knees from touching.

When the briefing finally ends, Jorge turns towards him. "Hello," he says.

"Hi," Ricky replies. And he has no idea what to say, so he settles on, "How are things?" Which makes him wince, internally, with its presumed familiarity, but Jorge doesn't seem to mind.

"Not bad," he says, and they start talking.

And they don't _stop_ talking, lingering in the room long after everyone has left and then slowly making their way back to Jorge's motorhome, where they _keep_ talking, and it's easy and effortless, shared laughter and endless words and Ricky can't stop looking at Jorge's _mouth_ ; his teeth, his tongue, the way his lips move when he speaks.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Jorge asks him, hours later, suddenly, out of nowhere.

"I have a boyfriend," Ricky says.

"Oh," Jorge replies. 

And Ricky can't quite read the look on Jorge's face, whether it's disappointment or surprise or some mildly bewildered form of gay panic, but it's _something_ , it's a _reaction_ and that mere fact warms Ricky's insides in a way that's both unexpected and instantly recognisable, so he continues. 

"We're not serious," he says. "I think we're going to break up, actually." Which is a lie, of course, because they've been making plans to move in together.

"Okay," says Jorge, nodding. "Well."

He doesn't finish the sentence, and a week later, asks Ricky to move in with _him_.

"As a friend," he says. "I like to have friends around me."

"Friends are good," Ricky agrees, and he packs up his stuff, sends a curt text to his now _ex_ -boyfriend, and shows up at Jorge's door.

-

"Welcome," Jorge says, and he stands back, ushers Ricky inside, shows him to his new room, which is upstairs, next to Jorge's. 

The rooms are joined by an interconnecting bathroom, which is surely _unusual_ , Ricky thinks, a situation ripe with possibilities, but he nods, says, "Great."

"I'll leave you to get settled," says Jorge. 

Ricky throws his bags in the corner, then takes a piss, washes his face and wanders downstairs. Jorge is in the kitchen, and they heat up some leftover takeaway out of the fridge, sit at the table, drinking beer and eating.

"To friendship," Jorge says, smiling genially, clinking his bottle against Ricky's.

"Friendship," Ricky agrees.

"You've got…" Jorge laughs a little, reaches out, fingertip swiping over Ricky's chin. "Sauce," he says, holding his hand up as evidence before he licks it off his finger, perfectly casual.

And Ricky swallows, hard. "Thanks," he says, holding Jorge's gaze.

"No problem," Jorge replies, and he's still smiling.

-

When the season proper starts, they travel to the first race together, in Jorge's motorhome, and Ricky's assuming that when they arrive they'll both do their own thing, separate for the weekend. Jorge will want to focus on his race, and Ricky will stay in his team's shared motorhome, as normal, but, instead, Jorge is adamant.

"Here," he says, "you'll stay here."

"Well," says Ricky. "I don't want to get in the way…" 

"I need you here." Jorge's different on race weekends. Not _angry_ , but more abrupt, blunt, like there's no question of refusal. Ricky's not interested in arguing, and Jorge's motorhome is much nicer than the team's, anyway.

The day is filled with practice and meetings, constant discussion of how to get that frustratingly elusive extra tenth, and after the last debrief is finally over, he heads back. 

And it's strange, the way he feels once he's inside, the sensation of relief that floods over him, because this technically isn't a familiar place, but already, it seems, wherever Jorge is is where Ricky now feels at home.

There are a few couches that convert to beds in the main living area, but they appear to be already occupied by dozing members of Jorge's personal team, and Ricky looks around, wondering where he's supposed to sleep.

"Hey," Jorge says, quietly, and beckons to him. Ricky follows him into the dimly lit bedroom, presuming there'll be something set up for him in there, but there's only Jorge's bed, which is a double, the covers thrown back carelessly.

"You don't mind sharing, right?" says Jorge. He doesn't look at Ricky as he strips down to his underwear, climbs into the bed.

"No," Ricky tells him. "Of course not." He kicks off his shoes, quickly sheds his jeans and t-shirt and then lies down next to Jorge, pulling the sheet up over himself. He's careful to be still, waiting, staring desperately at the ceiling because he can't _quite_ believe that this is all completely innocent, that Jorge isn't going to roll over, make a move, kiss him, _something_ , but there's nothing, not the merest hint of anything less than platonic, and soon enough he can hear Jorge snoring softly.

Ricky lies there a while, trying not to think about how _close_ Jorge is, that he's asleep, right _there_ , body barely covered, chest rising and falling, and all Ricky wants to do is touch him, just a little, not even wake him, only reach out and feel his skin, just to _know_ , just so he can remembers what it feels like.

But even he's not that stupid, and instead, eventually, he gets up, goes into the bathroom and jerks himself off, quick and quiet as he can. 

He sighs as he climbs back into bed, and he has to force himself not to jump, startled, when he hears Jorge's voice.

"Are you okay?" Jorge asks, and when Ricky looks over at him, his eyes are still closed.

"Yeah," Ricky tells him. "Of course."

"It's important to me," Jorge says, "that you're okay." There's the smallest trace of tension in his voice, and Ricky still doesn't know him well enough to understand what that means. 

But he can guess.

"I'm okay," he says, reassuring as he can. "Really."

"Good," says Jorge, sounding satisfied. "That's good."

And they both fall asleep.

-

Ricky wakes early, and he's lying on his side, facing away from Jorge. Their bodies aren't touching, but Jorge's hand is resting on Ricky's hip, fingers spread, wide and warm, and Ricky tries not to think about the fact that he'd only have to roll forward the tiniest amount, barely even move, and Jorge's hand would be on his ass.

And he has to _stop_ , he knows. He can't keep on like this, because Jorge is already important enough to him that Ricky can't risk losing him. He can't.

So he shifts away, listening to Jorge stir, grunting and sniffing as he wakes. "Morning," he says, sliding out of the bed.

"Morning," Ricky replies, turning on to his back. Jorge's standing, stretching, arms raised, grabbing one elbow with his opposite hand, pulling up his shoulder. Ricky's eyes rake down over his chest, his abs, and lower, the outline of the morning erection angled up inside Jorge's underwear impossible to ignore.

Ricky doesn't bother to conceal his stare, but Jorge only yawns, rubbing at the back of his neck as he says, "Quali today."

"Yeah." Ricky nods, watching the way Jorge's ass moves as he wanders into the bathroom.

He has to get over this. 

He just has to.

-

But _how_ he's supposed to, he has no idea.

Because Jorge has started _touching_ him, _constantly_ , and yeah, Jorge touches everyone, but not the way he touches Ricky. It never seems to stop: an arm slung around his shoulders, a slap on the ass, a hand resting possessively in the small of Ricky's back.

When they play video games, Jorge's practically on top of him, climbing all over Ricky and elbowing him out of the way as he shouts with laughter, determined to win at any cost. When they're in the pool he'll grab hold of Ricky's shoulders, try and push him under, then dive down, swim between Ricky's legs, skin cool and slick against Ricky's before he surfaces, shaking the water out of his hair and grinning. 

When they watch television in the evenings, Jorge will have one hand on the back of Ricky's neck, stroking, and when Ricky gives in and leans closer, rests his head on Jorge's shoulder, Jorge will absently run his fingers through Ricky's hair, over and over, addictive enough that when he stops, Ricky will forget himself, push up into the touch until Jorge starts up again with a pleased-sounding murmur.

On race weekends now, he wakes with Jorge spooned up behind him, arms pulling Ricky closer, hard cock pressed against his ass, and at home the bathroom's doors are permanently open, Jorge wandering in and out while Ricky takes a shit, casually leaning against the glass door and chatting when Ricky's in the shower.

The guy has no sense of personal space, no boundaries, at least when it comes to Ricky, and maybe Ricky shouldn't complain, being able to be so close to the man he's got it bad for, and it's not as if he's not grateful, but the problem is that never in his entire _life_ has he been this sexually frustrated. He feels like he's going to explode, like literally explode, and not in the good way, to the point where he's taken to wearing baggier jeans, longer t-shirts, because he's got an eternal, almost painful hard on.

Sometimes, in his more desperate moments, he tries to convince himself that he's mistaken, that what's actually happening is merely Jorge engaging in the world's most lengthy and clumsily elaborate seduction. But Ricky knows it's not true, that Jorge genuinely doesn't see what he's doing, doesn't understand his own behaviour.

But Ricky, unfortunately, understands it all too well.

-

And the more he gets to know Jorge, the _better_ he understands it, because there are other things Ricky notices, too.

Like how whenever they're watching a movie and there's a naked girl on screen, Jorge will cough awkwardly, make a show of exaggeratedly leering before he says something loud and stupid and sexist, but when a naked man appears, he'll always be totally silent. And Ricky will watch him, out of the corner of his eye, note exactly how Jorge stares, the _intent_ look on his face.

Or the way he's completely and utterly oblivious to some of the more aggressive of the umbrella girls so blatantly flaunting their remarkable cleavages right in his face. And Ricky would put that down to simple professionalism if he hadn't seen the way Jorge gets the slightest bit flirty, a little too smiley with some of the prettier of the male journalists, or the occasional _very_ extended sidelong glances he gives the ass of his best-looking mechanic.

Sometimes it makes Ricky feel jealous, almost possessive, which is pointless, he knows, because he has no claim of any kind on Jorge, no right to feel the way he does.

And besides, Ricky thinks, trying to reassure himself, even if Jorge's not fucking Ricky, it's not like he's fucking anyone else.

The fact is that Jorge doesn't really even seem to have _any_ friends apart from Ricky and his personal team, and while they're all caring and loyal people, completely dedicated to Jorge, every last one of them is on his payroll, an employee.

Ricky's curious as to what kind of life Jorge's led up till now, how lonely he's been, how isolated, and while contemplating that might make Ricky feel sadder than he can say, he also wonders if it shouldn't make him wary, more careful than he's being.

But, he's starting to see, it's too late for that. 

-

"You know," Jorge says, one night when they're getting ready for bed, brushing their teeth in the bathroom, "I've been thinking."

"Always dangerous," Ricky jokes, and Jorge rolls his eyes, turns around, leaning back against the sink. There's toothpaste foam round his mouth, stark white against his skin, distracting, and Ricky tries to focus.

"I've been having trouble sleeping..." Jorge starts, and Ricky frowns, interrupting him.

"You okay?" he asks, concerned.

"Yeah," says Jorge. "But I thought…" He spits, wipes the back of his hand over his lips before he continues. "I sleep so much better on race weekends so I thought maybe…" He doesn't finish.

"What?" Ricky knows what Jorge's implying, of course, but he wants to hear him say it.

"I thought maybe you could come in with me." Jorge shrugs, like it's nothing, but, clearly, it's not. "Like at the races. Just for a few nights," he says. "If you want to."

Ricky rinses out his mouth, puts his toothbrush back in its assigned place. "Sure," he says, and maybe it's just another nail in the coffin of his dignity, but, at this point, he realises, he's too far gone to care.

-

It's _different_ , anyway, sleeping together at home. _Better_ , away from the pressure of a race. Jorge's more relaxed, more laid back, and it's nice, Ricky thinks, it's _intimate_ to lie in bed together in the dark, have quiet, murmured conversations about their day as they both drift off. 

Sometimes Jorge likes to read for a while before he sleeps, mostly self-help books and biographies of famous, successful people. Sometimes, he'll read a sentence or two aloud. "Listen to this," he'll tell Ricky, and it's always something about overcoming setbacks and working harder and being more determined than anyone else.

"That's good, isn't it?" he'll say.

"Yeah," Ricky will agree, nodding, not really understanding. He wants to be successful in his career, of course, but he's nowhere near as ambitious as Jorge, doesn't have that same pure, ruthless drive.

Ricky used to believe that meant he wasn't good enough, but now he knows it just makes him different. Maybe he'll never be world champion, but then, maybe, he doesn't   
want to be.

Maybe you can make a life, be with someone, support them, their successes and victories almost better than your own, and that can be enough.

More than enough.

-

Tonight, Ricky's already switched off the light on his side of the bed, but Jorge's still reading, and Ricky lies on his side, studies him.

"What?" Jorge finally says, not looking up.

"What?" Ricky says, back.

"You're staring at me."

"I like watching you read."

"Why?" 

"You get a line between your eyes," says Ricky, reaching out, running his finger along said line for a second, feeling it deepen as Jorge frowns, "right here." He moves away, says, daring, "It's cute."

"It's not cute," Jorge replies, grumpily, and Ricky can't tell whether he's putting it on or not.

"It is."

"I am not _cute_."

"Yeah, you are." 

Ricky watches as Jorge very carefully marks his place in the book, puts it on his bedside table, turns back and then _pounces_ , grabbing Ricky and tickling him, rough and uncontrolled. And Ricky, as it happens, is not particularly ticklish, but he plays along, laughing, batting Jorge's touch away ineffectually, soon so caught up in the pretence he forgets it's not real, giggling and squealing as Jorge's hands skate over his ribs, slide up under his arms, everywhere all at once. They both still sleep wearing only their underwear, and there's so much _skin_ , Jorge almost on top of him now, and Ricky curls in on himself, knees drawing up to his chest but Jorge is grinning, laughing along with him, merciless.

"Say it," Jorge tells him. "Say I'm not cute."

Ricky can barely even speak, panting, stomach cramping from laughing so hard. Jorge has hold of his wrists, and he drags them upwards, pinning Ricky's arms over his head, straddling his thighs to keep him still.

"Say it," says Jorge, smiling down at him, his teeth very, very white.

Ricky twists and turns under Jorge's grasp, but there's no escape, he's captured, held fast, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be. "You're not cute," he says, finally, breathless, and it's only then that he feels it. He's hard himself, of course, he wouldn't expect anything less, but Jorge's crotch is brushing up against his own, and Jorge's cock is just as hard, possibly even harder.

And the _reason_ Ricky's feeling it is because Jorge is moving his hips, just slightly, the tiniest of thrusts up against Ricky's cock, so small that it's obvious it's completely instinctual, that Jorge has no idea what he's actually doing, not until Ricky glances down.

Jorge follows his gaze, visibly flinching when he realizes, when he _sees_ , and he stills, immediately, releasing Ricky and climbing off him. He's smiling, though, even though it's sheepish, looking a little embarrassed as he settles down into the bed, turning off the light. "I'm not cute," he says, softer this time, less assured.

Ricky rearranges the covers over himself, lying on his back, and he waits in the silence between them, listens till Jorge's breathing is _just_ starting to deepen before he says, "You're _so_ cute."

"Fuck off," Jorge replies, good-naturedly, voice slurred with almost-sleep, and Ricky smiles to himself.

-

In the morning they're in the kitchen, Ricky making breakfast and Jorge mixing up one of his revolting-looking protein shakes, both focused on their separate tasks, when Jorge says, suddenly, "What's it like?"

"What?"

"Being gay."

And whatever Ricky was expecting, it wasn't _that_ , so he shrugs. "I don't know," he says. "It's good, I guess." He thinks for a second. "I mean, I don't have anything to compare it to. I don't know what it's like to be straight."

"I always think it would be easier," says Jorge. He's not looking at Ricky, instead measuring out some powder or other. _Creatine_ , it says on the container, and Ricky doesn't even know what that is.

"What would be easier?"

"Being gay."

"Why?"

"Because, you know…" Jorge switches on the blender for a minute, then turns it off. "Women," he says. "They're so complicated." He shakes his head. "I don't understand them."

"Well," Ricky replies, trying not to make the remark sound as pointed as it _feels_ , "sometimes guys can be hard to understand too."

"Hmm," Jorge says. "I suppose." He pours his shake out into a glass, sips it. "But you fuck guys, right?"

"Sure," says Ricky. And if they're having this conversation, he may as well go all out, so he adds, "Though mostly they fuck me."

"Oh." Jorge sounds surprised. He tilts his head to one side a little, clearly considering this information. "And that's good?" he asks.

" _So_ good," Ricky says, attempting to keep the warmth out of his voice, but it feels like such a long, long time since he's been fucked, and he _misses_ it.

Jorge nods. "I did that to a girl once," he says. "She asked me to, but I don't think she really liked it."

"It's better for guys."

"Huh," Jorge says, staring off into space, thinking.

Ricky sits down at the table, starts eating his cereal as he scrolls through the new messages on his phone. "Why do you want to know, anyway?" he asks, carefully.

Jorge doesn't answer for a moment or two, then says, "You don't ever seem to date anyone."

"Neither do you," says Ricky, and he knows he sounds defensive.

"That's different."

"Why?"

"Because it _is_ ," Jorge replies, that tone in his voice Ricky knows better than to argue with, so he doesn't say anything, but he can definitely think of a few things he'd _like_ to say. 

Jorge steps closer, laying his hand lightly on the back of Ricky's neck, his thumb rubbing softly at Ricky's hairline. "I just want you to know," he says, "that if you want to date anyone, if you want to…" Ricky hears Jorge's voice falter, but he goes on, resolute, " _be_ with anyone, you can." He bends over, presses his lips to the nape of Ricky's neck, so quick it's barely even a kiss, his thumb still moving, stroking. 

Ricky tries not to lean back into the touch, says, "I don't want to be with anyone else," and he's not thinking, the way he phrases it, but that _else_ is telling enough that he feels Jorge stiffen for just a moment, caress halting briefly before it starts up again.

"I only want you to be happy," says Jorge, quietly, and Ricky turns around, takes Jorge's hand, loose in his own, and kisses the back of it.

"I _am_ happy," he says. And maybe he's not, not _really_ , but he's close enough to it that it doesn't matter.

Jorge looks down at him, serious and intense, and it's almost overwhelming, to be the subject of such _focus_ , but Ricky meets the gaze, staring back, for once not trying to hide the way he feels, knowing it's plain to read in his face, his eyes.

And Ricky couldn't say how much time passes, but it's Jorge who at last pulls away. "Busy day," he says, coughing a little, walking out of the kitchen.

"Yeah," says Ricky, but Jorge's already gone.

-

A week later, and Jorge's going to be out for most of the day. "Meetings with sponsors," he says, and Ricky nods.

"What time will you be back?"

"I don't know." Jorge drapes his favorite scarf around his neck, checking his reflection in the mirror, adjusting the drape of the fabric. "Four, maybe five," he says.

"Okay," says Ricky and the first thing he does when he's alone is go for a long, long run, pushing himself to his absolute limits, sprinting up the steepest hill he can find, faster and faster till his legs are burning, his lungs heaving for every gulp of air. When he gets to the top he's gasping, and he bends over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

All he needs to do is stop thinking, he knows. But that's not so easy.

He jogs back, taking it slower, and when he gets home, grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, guzzling it down. He considers jerking off now, maybe on the couch, maybe while watching some porn that he'd never dare have on with Jorge around, but he's got the whole day to himself, plenty of time, so instead he heads up to the shower.  

He strips off his clothes, for once tossing them carelessly on the floor, because Jorge's not here to snap at him about putting them in the hamper, and turns on the shower, standing under the spray as it warms, stepping back to adjust it to the perfect temperature.

He takes his time, scrubbing off the sweat and washing his hair, and when he's done, he stands there, daydreaming for a while, and he knows he should probably wait, make it last, but he's so fucking sick of controlling himself, of exercising what feels like superhuman levels of restraint.

He can't handle it anymore, always having to get off fast and silent, be careful, perpetually aware that Jorge could walk in at any time, never being able to let go.

And that's all Ricky wants right now, to let go, so that's what he does, one soaped up hand pulling rough on his cock, the other braced against the wall of the shower as he hears his own moans echoing off the tiles. He thinks about Jorge's skin, his touch, about the way his cock felt against Ricky's in those all-too-brief moments; about how it would feel to suck him, the way he would taste, what his cock would feel like buried thick and deep in Ricky's ass, what his face would look like when they were fucking, what he would say, the sounds he would make, if he'd hold Ricky afterwards, if they'd kiss.

_Jorge_ , Ricky thinks as he comes, harder than he has in a while, and afterwards he'll try desperately to remember whether he says the name out loud, but right now he pauses, gets his breath back, and then turns off the shower.

And he jumps, adrenaline racing him through him like a shot, because there's someone _there_ , standing outside the shower, _watching_ him, the shape of them blurred through the steam on the glass. Ricky steadies himself for a split second, trying not to panic, before he realises.

Because, of course, it's Jorge.

And Ricky has no idea how long he's been there, _listening_ , seeing, but whatever he's witnessed, it's too late now, so Ricky inhales, deep and calm as he can, and opens the door.

Neither of them speak, and Jorge isn't even meeting Ricky's eyes, way too busy staring at his cock as if he's never seen one before in his life. He's a little pale, his gaze wide and almost scared-looking.

"Pass me my towel?" Ricky asks, keeping his voice as neutral as he can, acting like this is a perfectly ordinary situation, something that's happened a million times before.

Jorge doesn't answer, but he grabs Ricky's towel off the rail, hands it to him without a word. Ricky nods in thanks, then steps out of the shower, past Jorge. He starts to dry himself, rubbing over his chest, down around his cock, taking his time, waiting to see if Jorge will ever speak or at the very least stop staring at Ricky's crotch like it's got him mesmerised.

"What happened to your meetings?" Ricky finally asks.

"The afternoon one was cancelled," Jorge says. He looks up, at Ricky's face. "I thought maybe we could go have lunch."

Ricky nods. "Sure," he says. "I'll get dressed." He hangs up his towel, then bends over, picking his running gear up off the floor, sticking his ass out as much as he can, because he may as well give Jorge a proper eyeful.

He stands up, putting the clothes in the hamper, then walks into the bedroom, not looking back. 

-

Ricky's worried lunch will be awkward, stilted, and though it's not, not at all, Jorge's definitely quieter than usual, more thoughtful.

Ricky doesn't push him, lets the silences sit, not rushing to fill them with empty, unnecessary words. They're able to do this, just be with one another, not speaking, without it ever being uncomfortable, and Ricky never takes that ease for granted.

But.

But, he thinks, it's time.

Sometimes Jorge talks about some philosophy he's read in his books, something called game theory, and Ricky doesn't really get what it's about, or not the finer points, anyway, but it seems to boil down to greater risks leading to greater rewards and that, Ricky understands.  
They can't go on like this, either of them, and it's up to him to make the first real move, to be the one who takes the risk, who gambles on the reward.

Ricky tries to steel himself, be brave, maybe think of one of Jorge's ridiculous catch phrases, one of the things he posts on instagram or twitter, but the best he can come up with is _failure is not an option_.

Because no, it's not.

It's really not.

-

After dinner, and it's Jorge's turn to pick the movie. Every now and then he'll make them watch something boring and highbrow, but tonight he keeps it simple, selects some trashy action thriller, settling into the couch.

And Ricky takes a deep breath, picks up one of the cushions and throws it casually in Jorge's lap. Jorge looks up at him, puzzled, but Ricky doesn't explain, simply climbing on to the couch and settling down on his side, facing the television, head on the cushion, resting on Jorge's thighs.

Ricky hears Jorge exhale, something like relief, contentment in the sound, and then his hand is in Ricky's hair, fingers carding through the strands, slow and relaxed. 

The movie starts, and Ricky waits.

-

And fortunately, it turns out to be relatively boring, with long breaks between the action scenes and too much cheesy dialogue. Jorge's losing interest, Ricky can tell, possibly starting to fall asleep, and it's the perfect opportunity.

He still has one hand in Ricky's hair, the other resting on Ricky's shoulder, and it's this one Ricky takes, bringing it slowly to his mouth, kissing the inside of Jorge's wrist. And that's no big deal, not really anything so much further than what they've done before. Jorge hums a little, keeps stroking Ricky's hair, but then he stops.

Because Ricky's _not_ stopping, licking up, tongue flat and warm over Jorge's palm, which tastes of salt, the faintest hint of soap. He _can't_ stop, he knows, because he'll lose his nerve, he's sure.

He can hear it, Jorge's breathing deepening as Ricky holds his wrist steady, moves his mouth up, lips dragging wet across Jorge's fingers till he reaches the tips. He bites at the skin, gently, just for a moment, then goes down, sucking Jorge's index and middle fingers into his mouth, stopping when they're as far in as he can go, almost gagging as he works his tongue along the underside, licking into the creases at the joints, before he pulls back, lips a tight seal as he moves up, down.

He rolls on to his back without even pausing, his grip firm on Jorge's wrist, and Ricky doesn't dare look up, not yet, focusing instead on his current task. But he can see, out of the corner of his eye, Jorge's chest rising and falling rapidly, and he sucks harder, longer, sliding up and down over Jorge's fingers one more time before he finally stops.

Jorge's hand falls limply aside as Ricky sits up, moving as slow as he can, leaning across Jorge's lap, his weight resting on one arm, hip pressed up tight against Jorge's thigh. Jorge doesn't speak, just stares back at him, looking half-terrified, half like all he wants to do is eat Ricky alive in the best possible way.

Ricky gives him a moment, not daring to rush things, but he's come too far to turn back, so he leans in, kissing Jorge on the mouth, full and soft and slow, but close-lipped, not pushing it, before pulling back, waiting, trying not to hold his breath.

"I'm not gay," Jorge says, after a minute.

"I know," says Ricky, quietly, because it's what Jorge needs to hear.

"I'm not."

"I know you don't like guys." Ricky puts his hand carefully on Jorge's chest, over his heart, feeling it beat fast and panicked beneath his palm. "But you like _me_ , right?" he says. "I mean," he continues, before Jorge can reply, "maybe it's not _guys_ , it's just me. Like they always say everyone has one exception, and maybe for you, I'm the exception." It's all bullshit, of course, because at this point Ricky has no doubt whatsoever that Jorge's every bit as gay as he is, but he also knows that Jorge is deep, _deep_ in denial, and that he's living every day with the pain of that, carrying a burden so immense Ricky can't even imagine the hurt it must cause him, the _weight_ of it.

And if Jorge really has to bear that, then the one thing Ricky wants more than anything is for him not to have to bear it alone. "Maybe?" he says, again.

"Maybe," Jorge concedes, stiffly. "I like you."

"Then can we try? Please?" says Ricky, attempting not to sound as on edge as he feels. "You know you can just say 'stop' and I'll stop, right?"

"I know that," Jorge says, and it's the first time all day he's sounded certain, sure of the words he's saying.

"Just this once, then?" Ricky asks. "And if it doesn't work, if you don't like it, then we'll just forget about it?" He can _hear_ the neediness in his own voice, the desperation.

Jorge only nods.

"I need you to _say_ it," Ricky tells him, his hand now moving slowly across Jorge's chest. "You have to say it."

"Okay," Jorge says, so soft it's barely audible, but then stronger, louder, "Yes." 

It's everything Ricky's ever wanted to hear, and all he wants to do is push Jorge down on to the couch, kiss him raw, rub up against him, open himself up and be fucked till they're both aching with it, endless and unceasing, but instead he inhales shakily, then  calmly says, "Okay then."

-

Ricky climbs off the couch, moving as carefully and as steadily as he can, feeling like he's trying not to startle a wild animal, and maybe that's closer to the truth than he'd like, but he tries not to think about it, throwing the cushion on Jorge's lap to one side, settling on to his knees. He reaches behind him, grabbing the remote and pausing the movie.

Jorge's legs are wide enough that Ricky can kneel between them, his hands on Jorge's thighs, bulk of solid muscle firm beneath his touch. He's hard, Ricky can see, _very_ hard, cock visible through his jeans, and Ricky leans in, presses his lips against the outline of it through the denim, only softly, up and down the length.

He doesn't forget himself, waiting with trepidation for any negative reaction from Jorge, but there's nothing, only a quickening of breath, a few small gasps as Ricky turns, rubs his face slowly over Jorge's crotch, revelling in the feeling, in the mere fact of being _able_ to, and he rests his head there for a minute, just because he _can_ , but then impatience sets in. 

He sits back a little and unfastens Jorge's jeans, pulling them out of the way enough that he can take out his cock, and he can _see_ his hands trembling as he holds it. It's stupid, Ricky knows, foolish beyond belief that he's letting himself treat this as something momentous, important, but he can't just switch off the way he feels, not after waiting for _so_ long.

And he's seen Jorge's cock before, probably hundreds of times, even seen it hard, but he's never _touched_ it, not like this, felt it alive and smooth under his curled fingers. He runs his hand up and down, tries not to hear the small, high whining noises Jorge is making, because he knows he'll lose it completely if he doesn't concentrate.

He leans in, licks the tip gently, opening his mouth around the head as slowly as he can force himself to, barely even sucking as his fingers slide over the shaft. It's obvious Jorge isn't going to last long and Ricky looks up at him, wanting to see his face. His eyes are screwed shut, lips parted a little, opening wider as Ricky tongues the underside of his cock, watching him react.

"I'm…" Jorge says, shaking his head, biting the corner of his mouth. "I can't…"

Ricky averts his gaze, refocusing, and he doesn't stop, only goes down further, just to show Jorge that it's okay, so very desperately wanting to taste him. "Fuck," Jorge mutters as he comes. " _Fuck_." And Ricky strokes him through it, soft hot spurts into his throat that he swallows down greedily, trying not to think about the fact that it's more than likely this may be the one and only time that he gets this experience, that he'll never have another chance.

He moves back, sees Jorge slump a little when Ricky releases his cock, looking almost shocked, stunned, but Ricky's got no time to waste, ripping open his jeans and spitting into his palm, saliva mixed with Jorge's come as he grabs himself roughly, urgent need that can't go unsatisfied.

Jorge's watching him, fascinated and it's so fucking _good_ , just that look, not even a touch as Ricky rushes through it because he can't _wait_ , not anymore, pulling hard. But then it happens, more than he could have expected, more than he ever hoped for, because Jorge slides slowly off the couch, on to his knees. Ricky slows down a second, and Jorge reaches out, fingers loosely encircling Ricky's wrist, and that's all he does, nothing more, but it might be the hottest fucking thing ever.

Ricky closes his eyes as he comes, and when he's done, when he opens them, Jorge's staring down at his cock, at the come on his thighs, spattered over his jeans. Ricky wants to ask if he's okay, but he doubts Jorge will even know the answer to that, or at least not yet, anyway.

"You want to watch the rest of the movie?" he says, instead, softly, and Jorge shakes his head _no_. "Shower?" Ricky asks. "Bed?"  

Jorge nods.

"Okay," Ricky says, standing up, offering Jorge his hand, pulling him to his feet, and Ricky doesn't let go once Jorge's upright, keeping hold, leading him upstairs.

-

In the bathroom, they separately strip off their clothes and then shower together, each washing themselves, taking turns under the spray, not speaking until Ricky asks, "Do you want me to do your back?"

Jorge doesn't reply, mutely turning away and Ricky nods to himself, rubbing his soaped-up hands over Jorge's back, skin soft and slippery under his touch. He takes care not to go _too_ far down, mostly concentrating on Jorge’s upper torso, thumbs digging into the muscles above his shoulder blades, trying to ease the tension he feels there. Jorge grunts a little as the knots loosen and finally Ricky stops, turning off the shower.

He throws Jorge his towel, picks up his own, and they dry themselves, Ricky wandering into the bedroom when he's done. Jorge’s behind him and Ricky can _feel_ him watching as he climbs into bed, not bothering to even slip on a pair of underwear. Ricky lies on his back, hands under his head, and Jorge stands at the foot of the bed, naked, staring for a minute, face serious, until he crawls in beside Ricky.

He nudges Ricky's shoulder and for a second Ricky doesn't understand, but then he gets it, rolling over on to his side, letting Jorge spoon up behind him, his arms encircling Ricky, holding him close.

There's a small, quick kiss to the back of his neck, and Ricky suddenly realises that though this is the position he wakes up in more often than not, wrapped up tight in Jorge’s embrace, he's never fallen asleep like this, not once, not ever.

He threads his fingers through Jorge's, pulling him nearer, contentment washing over him like rain.

He could get used to this, and it's a dangerous thought, he knows.

-

In the morning, when Ricky wakes, he's alone, and the first thing he feels is panic, something approaching terror, because Jorge's _gone_ and he doesn't know what that _means_. But he rubs his eyes, settles into wakefulness, trying to be rational, knowing that Jorge's probably only downstairs, and whatever is going to happen will happen, that it's not up to him.

He pulls on a pair of boxer briefs and heads down to the kitchen, where Jorge is standing, leaning up against the counter, drinking coffee and wearing baggy grey sweatpants. "Hey," he says when he sees Ricky, and he _seems_ normal but Ricky doesn't dare assume.

"Morning," he says, back, pouring a cup of coffee for himself. "You okay?" he asks as he adds milk, stirring, watching the liquid change from dark to light, not looking up, trying as hard he can not to hold his breath as he waits for the answer.

"Yeah," Jorge says. "Sure."

"That's good." Ricky takes a sip, swallows.

They stand there, in silence for a minute or two, and Jorge is staring down into his mug, frowning, when he speaks, softly enough that Ricky might struggle to hear if every single fibre of his being wasn't attuned, aware, on edge, _listening_ when Jorge says, "I _liked_ it."

"Really?" says Ricky, this time unashamed of the eagerness he can hear in his own voice.

"Yes." Jorge raises his head, meets Ricky's gaze, and there's still a hint of tension there, nervousness, but there's also something bolder, more challenging. Jorge puts his coffee down and all Ricky wants to do is ask the obvious next question, but it seems there's no need, because Jorge is leaning back further, sliding his feet forward on the floor, just enough, spreading his legs, adjusting himself through his pants, making it obvious to see that he's already half-hard.

Ricky places his own coffee behind him on the bench, and _looks_ at Jorge, making certain. Jorge gives him a tiny nod of assent and that's all Ricky needs, because he's across the room and on his knees before he can even stop to think, hand on Jorge's cock, stroking him quickly into full hardness and then swallowing him down, all the way, none of the care of last night, on steadier ground now, able to _take_ what he wants. 

He moves up and down, gripping Jorge's hips to balance himself, and Jorge's hands land on his shoulders, slide slowly up, caressing Ricky's face, settling into his hair, holding on. 

And as soon as Jorge's done, Ricky's jerking himself, hand inside his underwear, shoving it out of the way roughly, but then Jorge's hauling him up, on to his feet. Ricky stops, is quite still, watching Jorge, who's staring down, fascinated, at Ricky's cock. He reaches out with one finger, tentatively tracing the path of a vein, up and over the shaft, back and forth, and Ricky tries to be in the moment, to just enjoy it, but he needs more; he needs to come, and _now_.

"I.." he says. He looks at Jorge, pleading. "I _have_ to."

Jorge nods, shifting his hand out of the way and Ricky grabs himself, hard and urgent. Jorge runs his fingers across the inside of Ricky's forearm as it moves, pressing down on the tendon, and when Ricky comes, it's all over Jorge's sweat pants, a few splashes on his stomach.

He gazes down at himself, frowning, and Ricky says, "Sorry," hoping that it isn't too much, that he hasn't fucked this up before it can even start, because if he has, he won't be able to live with himself. 

But Jorge looks back up, says, softly, "It's okay." He leans in, kisses Ricky's throat, mouth lingering for just a moment before he pulls back.

-

And that's all they do; for a few weeks it's the same routine, every time. Outside of it, they carry on as normal, but Ricky's never spent so much time on his knees, never sucked so much cock in his life. And he's never been happier, unable to stop smiling, drunk on the feeling, all of it, because he gets to have this, to have _Jorge_ , and even if they never go further, never fuck, never _really_ kiss, even if this is all they do forever, it will be more than enough, because it's so much more than Ricky ever thought he'd get, more than he could have dreamed of.

But things are building between them, he can tell, progressing, because while what they do might not change, _Jorge_ is changing, becoming more daring every time. Ricky's still jerking himself off after, but now Jorge's hand is almost always on his, their fingers interlaced enough that Jorge is _touching_ him, his cock, as they move together.

They're always together, now.

-

This time, they're in the shower, and Ricky's got one arm braced against the wall, Jorge pressed up behind his back, hand over Ricky's as it moves up and down his cock. And all Ricky wants to is let go, but he forces himself stop, pause, very deliberately taking hold of Jorge's wrist, keeping it in place as he slowly, slowly pulls his own hand out from under Jorge's. Jorge stills, and Ricky can feel him tense for a moment, but then he continues, jerking Ricky off with no help, no encouragement, and he's _enjoying_ it, Ricky can tell, experimenting a little, changing his grip, mixing up the tempo, and it's so fucking _perfect_ that Ricky can hardly bear it, coming so hard he feels weak, dizzy with it, but Jorge's there, ready to catch him.

-

And then one day Ricky's just out of the shower after a workout, still naked, wandering into the bedroom to dress himself, and Jorge's sitting on the end of the bed, apparently deep in thought.

"You okay?" Ricky asks.

Jorge waits a moment before answering, but says, "Yes." 

Ricky rummages through a drawer, looking for his favorite t-shirt, when Jorge says, "Wait."

"What?" Ricky stops, turns to face Jorge, who gets up, walks across the room, very deliberately, one step at a time, until he's standing in front of Ricky. And Ricky holds his breath, thinking Jorge's going to kiss him, _properly_ kiss him, for the first time, and for second it's obvious that he's considering it, almost imperceptibly leaning in as he looks at Ricky but he stops, and instead sinks to his knees. 

Ricky inhales, trying not to whimper, just at the sight, and he's instantly, achingly hard as Jorge takes him in hand, leaning in, tongue snaking out, visibly wet and pink against the darker skin of Ricky's cock. And it's hardly even a blow job, only tentative, hesitant licks and kisses but it might be the best Ricky's ever had.

"Fuck," he whispers, trying to control himself, wanting this to last, to go on forever. " _Fuck_." But it's too late.

Mostly he tries not to be too loud when he comes, but he's beyond caring, yelling out, watching himself, white spurting out on to Jorge's hand, dripping slowly off his fingers.

"Shit," Ricky says, and he's barely even sated, still feeling it, almost like he could go again _now_ he's so turned on. But there's no time to think, because Jorge's grabbing him, dragging him forcibly down on to the floor, pushing Ricky on to his back, and then Jorge's on top, ripping open his jeans, cock out and grinding up feverishly against Ricky's thigh. His mouth is open, and Ricky can't stand it, can't help himself, fingers sliding rough into Jorge's hair, pulling him in and kissing him, open-mouthed, tongue past Jorge's lips, desperate.

And Jorge's kissing him _back_ , one hand cradling Ricky's face, the other running up and down Ricky's side, his tongue in Ricky's _mouth_ , running over his teeth, and Ricky can _hear_ himself whimpering, high and fierce as Jorge pushes against him, come splashing hot on to Ricky's stomach. But they don't even pause, still greedy for each other, mouths wide, reckless with need.

Eventually Jorge manages to strip off his clothes, using his t-shirt to wipe them both off and they climb on to the bed, tangled up in each other as they fall back, still kissing like they won't ever stop. 

-

And they don't, not for a long, long time, not till Ricky's jaw is aching and his lips are almost numb. There's a bottle of water by the bed, and Jorge opens it, has a few sips. Ricky holds out his hand, waiting to share, but Jorge ignores him, instead takes another drink, grabbing Ricky's chin, opening his mouth and spitting the water into it, a steady stream. And Ricky swallows it down, trying not to choke on his laughter, because he's not sure he's ever been so happy.

They doze for a while, curled up together, and when Ricky wakes, he's certain he's dreaming, because Jorge's bent over his crotch, licking at him, but then he remembers and it's even better than he could have ever imagined, knowing this is real.

He moans, deep and low, and Jorge looks up at him, smiles.

-

Hunger finally drives them out of bed and downstairs but they don't bother dressing, and halfway down the stairs, Jorge grabs Ricky and starts kissing him, again, hands all over Ricky's body like he can't control himself even for a second.

When they finally make it to the kitchen, Ricky looks in the fridge. "There's nothing to eat," he says, screwing up his face.

"Hmm," Jorge says. "We could get pizza."

"What about your diet?"

Jorge shrugs. "It's one night." 

"Really?" asks Ricky, because Jorge's usually incredibly strict with himself about what he eats. "Are you sure?"

"You're a bad influence on me." Jorge smiles, and Ricky can't help but kiss him, just because he can.

"You know the problem with pizza?" Ricky says when he finally pulls away.

"What?" 

"One of us will have to put on some pants to answer the door."

Jorge laughs. "I don't know, the delivery guy might enjoy it." 

"He better not."

"Why not?"

Ricky grins. "You're all mine now."

"Really?" Jorge says, the sly _dirtiness_ in his voice making Ricky shiver. "I like that," he says, and he's serious, Ricky can tell.

-

Jorge eventually pulls on a pair of sweatpants when the doorbell rings, and they eat on the couch, Jorge for once not fretting about mess and grease stains. They laugh, licking cheese off each other's fingers, barely even with time to swallow between kisses, and when they're finished, Jorge lies back, pulling Ricky down on top of him, their cocks rubbing together until they both come.

They fall asleep like that, right there on the couch, and when Ricky wakes, hours later, his neck is stiff and sore. There's dried semen crusting on his skin and in his pubic hair and the room stinks of cold pizza, but he looks down at Jorge beneath him, still sleeping, and nothing, Ricky thinks, has ever been more beautiful.

-

And yeah, okay, the sex is great, it's fucking _fantastic_ , phenomenal, but it's not _just_ that. It's the rest of it, too, the _ease_ of it, being around each other.

The shared laughter, the way Jorge _looks_ at him, the fact that Ricky finally, at last, doesn't have to hide how he feels, and the knowledge, bone-deep and real, that Jorge feels exactly the same way.

They can _relax_ , at last, and yes, they have to be careful around other people, in public, but they've been spending so much time together for so long now that to anyone outside, it would seem that nothing has changed.

And maybe the best thing, Ricky thinks, is seeing the effect it's having on Jorge, watching him open up, become ever so slightly less tightly wound, more and more comfortable with himself, his desires, his wants, his _needs_. 

"You're the bravest person I know," Ricky tells him.

"What?" Jorge looks back at him, confused. "Because of the bike? Because I race?"

"No." Ricky shakes his head. "Not because of that."

"Then why?"

"Because of this," Ricky says, and kisses him, so slow he's light-headed by the time they stop.

Jorge just smiles at him, understanding. "Well," he says, "I didn't do it alone."

"No." Ricky smiles back. "I guess you didn't."

-

They're lying in bed one night, a few weeks later, and Ricky's on his stomach, lazily grinding himself against the mattress as Jorge licks and bites at the muscle of his ass.

"Can I ask you something?" Jorge says.

"Of course," Ricky answers, hoping that the question will be what he's expecting, the question he's been wanting Jorge to ask him since they started doing this, the question he's been waiting for ever since they _met_.

And it is, because Jorge says, quietly, seriously, "Can I fuck you?"

"Yes," says Ricky, without hesitation. "Please," he adds.

"Now?"

"Right now."

"Okay," Jorge says. He gets up, and Ricky rolls over on to his back, watches Jorge walk into the bathroom, come back with a tube of lube and a box of condoms.

"All prepared," Ricky says.

Jorge shrugs, looks a little embarrassed. "I wanted to be ready."

"And are you?"

"What?"

"Ready," says Ricky, because he needs to be sure.

"Yeah," Jorge replies. "Yeah, I am."

-

Ricky bends his knees, feet flat on the bed, legs wide, and Jorge seats himself between his thighs. He's _nervous_ , Ricky can tell, and he holds up the lube, looking a little lost. "I don't really know…" he says. "I mean, I know, but.." He shakes his head. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't hurt me," Ricky says, and he takes the tube from Jorge's hand, squeezing some out on to his hand. Jorge stares, curious but intense, as Ricky lifts his hips a little, sliding in a finger, not rushing it, and maybe he's putting on something of a performance, but the sight of Jorge _watching_ him do this is so incredibly hot.

"Do you have to do this every time?" Jorge asks, fascinated, stroking himself slowly.

"It depends," Ricky says, calmer than he feels, biting his lip as he slides in a second finger, working himself open.

"On what?"

"Mostly on how often you've been doing it."

"So you haven't done this lately?"

Ricky looks up at him. "Not since I moved in here."

"Oh," Jorge says, and he's _pleased_ , it's obvious, trying to hide the expression of satisfaction creeping over his face. "I didn't know that."

"Been waiting for you," Ricky says. He laughs, breathless, another finger and it's enough, it will have to be, because he can't wait any longer. "Okay," he says.

Jorge nods, ripping open a condom and rolling it quickly on to his cock. He settles down over Ricky, balancing himself on one forearm, other hand gripping himself, pressing up against Ricky's hole, but he hesitates.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

" _Please_ ," Ricky says, and he'll beg if he has to. He'll do _anything_. "Please fuck me."

"Okay," Jorge says, and when he pushes in, it's cautious, careful, but _good_ , so fucking good, filling Ricky up, and it's perfect, it's _everything_ , and this is exactly where he's supposed to be, Ricky knows, right here, whole and finally, _finally_ home.

He looks up at Jorge and says, "I love you."

Jorge leans down, kisses him, says, "I love you too." 

And then he starts to move.

-

"You know," Jorge says, later, "it's not _just_ that I love you."

"It's not?" says Ricky.

"No."

"What else, then?"

Jorge regards him for a second before he says, "You make me _happy_. No one's ever made me happy before."

"No one?"

"No one except you."

"Well," Ricky says, "I am happy to be your exception."

"You'll always be my exception," says Jorge.

Ricky smiles at him. "I can live with that," he says.


End file.
